North of the Purgatory River
by Darth Mary Sue
Summary: Crossover madness? Do you call it madness? Yeah, well, you know, that's just, like, your opinion, man.
1. Chapter 1

**ONE**

The program officially designated Jef received a cryptic communication via his armglove. This frightened him. He received many messages on his arm, short and sweet like this message, but always crystal clear. Unlike this message.

Jef didn't like surprises. Not in business. A siren flirting with him, that was a pleasant surprise. But in Tron City, business surprises ran to the unpleasant. He liked the routine when it came to business. Routinely, he received intel that in this sector or that quadrant (specific address soon to come) there was a hot deal on flavor codes. Chocolate and cinnamon, garlic and salt — these were his stock-in-trade. He was accustomed to straightforward commerce, brief bursts of data that could not be misconstrued in any way. Failures to communicate wasted time and could be life-threatening.

So Jef didn't do cryptic. Not in business. He devoutly believed in, and religiously practiced, terse clarity in business. He stared at his arm and blinked. Surely he had misunderstood.

ELDER BROTHER WILL SOON ARRIVE GREET HIM WARMLY

That couldn't be right. But the scrolling plaintext did not change.

ELDER BROTHER WILL SOON ARRIVE GREET HIM WARMLY

No way did that have anything to do with the bacon flavor he'd run a search for.

"Shit," Jef moaned, and shoved his jacket sleeve down his arm to cover the glowing letters. That's all he needed, to accidentally intercept a spy-speak code from some half-assed rebel group. Or worse, from a gang. Clu or the local mini-Clu's would never believe he had no idea what it was about. There was no such thing as the presumption of innocence here. Not on the fucking Grid, man. No way.

Jef hastened home to crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after him. If trouble was coming, he meant to avoid it. He felt like the message was chasing after him, hot on his heels with a hellhound's breath. Felt like it was burned into his retinas:

ELDER BROTHER WILL SOON ARRIVE GREET HIM WARMLY

Walking briskly, he turned off his armglove. Like that would do any good. He sped up to a trot. He would have broken into a dead run but for the fucking rain. Fucking Tron City. Fucking place had two modes: gloomy and gloomier.

Fear made time drag like a load of cement. The trip seemed to take ten times longer than it should. He was trembling, and not with effort, by the time he reached the doorstep of home. He shouted as his feet nearly flew out from under him. Thought for an awful stretched-out second he was gonna break his neck. Fuck, he thought as he regained his footing and ducked inside. Fucking fuck. Fuckity fuck. I'm kidding myself. I'm not safe here. Never should have rented this place. Dirt cheap, but labeled FLYNN'S on the front … just begging for trouble, man.

Jef was not one for signs and omens. Life here was tricky enough without finding hidden meaning in every coincidence. However, the first thing he'd done upon leasing this fixer-upper was to plaster a cheap sign over the original one. Then Bear had insisted on blessing the site with a brief prayer. It had to be brief, because that was all Bear could manage. Jef had been relieved that Bear did not invoke the name of Flynn. Maybe Bear couldn't read.

Once safely (ha!) inside, Jef greeted the security program with the usual words: "Yo, Bear, any trouble?" As usual, Jef forced himself to meet the dim gaze and twisted face without flinching. Bear shook his head no. Sometimes Bear talked, sometimes he didn't. He must be feeling uncommunicative right now. Jef did not question him further.

But Bear had picked up on his disquiet. (And here Jef thought he was being Mr. Casual. Ha!) Bear removed himself from the tureen of tastes-like-tomato soup he had been inhaling and went outside to circle the block. Minding his turf. Bear was good at that. Right now, Jef envied Bear his occupation.

Nothing I can do, thought Jef as he nervously paced the dining area. I can't hide. Not safe here — not safe anywhere. Either they'll come after me, or they won't. Whoever the hell 'they' is. Maybe there isn't any 'they'. Shit. If there is a 'they', who's gonna feed Bear?

He heard Bear outside, bellowing, his words carried away by the wind.

"Speak of the devil," Jef sighed. Resigned, he bolted outside to meet his doom, if doom indeed it was. Maybe it was Big Brother, come to visit. Yeah, Big Brother is watching, man!


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

It was no small surprise to pop into existence in a city such as neither of them had ever seen, or had even believed was possible. However, the bizarre (and enormous) architecture and artificial light was not the first thing they noticed. A bitter cold wind was blowing. It seemed a blue norther, but there was no sun to determine direction.

"Oh," Mattie gasped with shock as the cold smote them. "What is happening?" She huddled against Rooster's large frame in a futile attempt to escape the wind.

"I do not know." That was an understatement. "I have never seen this city." His every instinct screamed to draw, but he fell back on reason. "We must seek shelter." He felt lightheaded. They'd just eaten, so it wasn't hunger. It must be the cold. The wind cut like a skinning knife. If he was feeling it, Mattie was feeling it worse. She was so little. He put an arm around her shoulders and hurried toward the first possible windbreak he could see, in a recessed alcove of the nearest building.

"I have read of the lights of Paris, and the great buildings of New York City," said Mattie.

Of course Mattie would convoke a geography lesson. "Where is everyone?" Rooster wondered, peering about. "Seems they have cleared the streets."

"Not a soul is in sight," Mattie said. Then they saw one soul, eyes down and hunched into himself, trot from around the corner. Rooster got the impression that he would run, but for the damp pavement. The man scurried into the entrance of the same building they huddled by, almost slipping as he turned. They heard him shout "Awwww FUCK!"

"I do not think this is Paris," Rooster said dryly.

"I am forced to agree." Mattie rubbed her left shoulder absently. The upper arm was tingling. That sensation usually led to phantom pain in her missing limb. "I believe we are due for a change in the weather." The wind was blowing noticeably less rain than only a moment before.

Rooster looked at the storm on the horizon. "It could be. That is the strangest display of lightning —"

"Reuben! Look — " Her voice was almost a shout. She stopped to compose herself. "Look at my arm," she whispered.

They both stared, almost aghast, as her arm — gone from above the elbow for almost five years — began to reconstitute itself. A controlled fall of sparks, rather like a gas flame, shaped the limb's outline. Swiftly, before they could grasp what was happening, the flame solidified and became flesh. The flame was even thoughtful enough to provide a matching sleeve, complete with buttons.

"Well, I'll be," Rooster said. He could think of no profanity profound enough for the occasion. He was truly confounded.

"It is either or miracle or a dream." Mattie's usual imperturbable air was shaken, but her voice was calm. She wiggled her fingers and flexed the limb experimentally.

"We must not worry on it now. We — " He stopped and put a hand to his face. This gesture was most out of character. Mattie looked up at him. He gazed down at her, stunned. With two good eyes. The sunken eye, sealed these twenty years, was restored. Even the surrounding scars were gone.

Rooster finished the oath this time. "Well, I'll be damned."

A heartbeat passed, and then Mattie said, "You are correct. We can puzzle it out later."

"Yes." He cleared his throat. Mattie suspected that he was swallowing tears. His eyes (eyes!) were bright. "We must get off the streets." He took off his overcoat. "Put this on." In addition to providing warmth, he wanted to cover her womanly frame. No telling what was troubling this strange city.

They stepped out of their poor windbreak and almost literally bumped into the oddest-looking creature either had ever seen. He was a head taller than Rooster and almost twice as broad. His forehead sloped back drastically. His face bulged forward into something akin to a dog's snout. Long, light brown hair sprouted from his scalp and face, spotted by bald patches of no discernable pattern. His skull poked out in asymmetrical lumps that almost obscured his ears. He smelled of tomato.

Mattie had never seen the like. Rooster had, but not among the living. He'd never known anyone with a head so busted up to survive it.

Dazed with multiple shocks, Rooster and Mattie just gaped. This made it easy for the man (if it was a man) to grab Mattie with hands the size of spades and lift her off her feet. She did emit a squeak of surprise. That sound, and the size of the hands gripping her, galvanized Rooster. He backed away and drew one of his Navy Colts. He kept distant enough for safety. Rooster was certain the creature could hoist Mattie with only one hand and get hold of him as well. Damn, one hand wrapped almost clear round her torso. The other did wrap around her knees. "Unhand her, you peckerwood."

"Young man," Mattie said conversationally, "it would be healthier for you to do as he says." She could not tell if he was young, but felt that a possible flattery was no sin in this particular.

The huge being peered at them with small, sorrowful blue eyes. He seemed to have no idea why they objected to his behavior. His feelings appeared to be injured. His lower lip quivered. "Bear guard temple!" he roared.

"Put her down." Rooster's soft voice seemed very loud to Mattie's ears. The wind had died down; there was a temporary eye of quiet in this storm. He cocked his piece. Mattie concealed her shiver at the audible click. "Last chance. Put her down." Rooster truly did not want to fire. He was certain this man was capable of mangling Mattie whilst in his death-throes. He did not think the first bullet would penetrate that skull.

"Guard temple!" Bear looked ready to cry.

"Bear! Yo, Bear." A man's soothing voice approached them. "It's okay. They're friends. Friends. Put her down, man. Friends."

Rooster backed up so as to keep an eye on both Bear and the new arrival. He thanked God for his renewed binocular vision. The latest member of this drama held both hands high over his head. A studious calm was on his face. He was attempting to appear no threat at all. Rooster did not know if it was for his benefit or for Bear's.

Mattie watched calmly, her head some five feet above Rooster's. He could all too easily envision her head split wide open on the pavement. God, Mattie —

"Friends," Bear echoed. He set Mattie down, none too gently, but she appeared unharmed.

"That's good, Bear." Their savior was greatly relieved, but did a fair job of hiding it.

"Guard temple," Bear sniffled.

"Go ahead, Bear. Guard the temple. That's a good Bear."

"Good Bear," agreed Bear, and turned and lumbered away.

Jef sighed and lowered his hands. He looked after Bear's retreating mass. He noted Bear's light disc, looking absurdly small on that broad back — Shit. His turned to his visitors — yeah, that's right. No discs. Shit.

Mattie leaned against Rooster, poised but white as a sheet. "It's cool," Jef told them. "Bear doesn't mean any harm. He's just — just, uh, protective. Come in. Please." Right fucking now, because what the fuck are you thinking, hitting the street with no discs? But it was no good ragging them about it, not now.

"Much obliged," Rooster grunted. He thought the younger man looked far more shaken than Mattie. He was uncomfortably reminded of his boy Horace.

Their savior (and now host) ushered them towards the arched entrance of the building. Rooster noted how he looked about anxiously, even glancing skyward. For what reason, Rooster could not determine. He seemed to be anticipating attack, but why look up? Were there snipers in one or more of those impossibly high spires? Rooster also looked up. The sign over the entrance read SOUP KITCHEN FREE CLINIC.

"We gotta get inside, man." Their host stood behind them, trying for calm but clearly shielding them from — from something. Ah,well. If this city was in a state of war, they would find out soon enough.

God damn it. This was one hell of a way to wrap up a honeymoon.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

Inside was as stark and geometric as outside, but not as gloomy. The surroundings made Rooster think of a state-of-the-art doctor's surgery. Only it was not paint gleaming white on the floor, walls and ceiling. It was yet more imbedded artificial light of some sort, as on the buildings outside. One wall was not working properly. Its light flickered in a distracting fashion.

A lovely Negress wearing the oddest leotard Rooster had ever seen greeted them. "Welcome, brother. Welcome, sister. Welcome to the Temple of the Dude." Her tight outfit was of a shiny pink fabric, accented with glowing white strips and what looked like enameled white jewelry.

"I told you to quit calling it that," their host snapped.

"Bear calls it that."

"Geez, Hype, you wanna do everything Bear does? You wanna bring the Guard down on us?" His more sober (by comparison) garb was also highlighted by odd strips of glowing material. "We feed programs, patch 'em up. We don't do religion!"

Miss Hype smiled serenely and confidently at their host. Rooster was certain that this subject was a continual bone of contention.

"I'm serious, man! Just because we have a truce with the gangs doesn't mean the fucking Guard can't touch us."

"Mind your language, young man," Rooster told him sternly. "There are ladies present."

The 'young man' turned to him with a look of incomprehension as total as any Bear had given him. "Oh. Uh. Sorry, I haven't introduced myself. My disc says Jef, but everybody calls me the Dude. This is Hypatia."

"Everybody calls me Hype. No names are needed here. Not until you are ready to share. Are you all right, miss?"

"Damn it." Rooster had been so taken by the surroundings (and perhaps by Miss Hype's frame), he hadn't even noticed how heavily Mattie had been leaning against him.

"Do sit down." In her scandalous rigging, Miss Hype was as gracious as a high church matron. A crooked winding bench near a crooked winding table was close by. Rooster and Miss Hype bustled the drooping Mattie over and got her settled. A pair of drunks down the table stared blearily. Rooster had never seen men wear such clothing, but he knew drunks when he saw them. And smelled them.

The Dude stomped over to the flickering wall and kicked it hard. It flared up, then died. "Good!" he hollered at it. "It's an improvement," he grumbled, and stomped back to Miss Hype. "No preaching! No Zen koans! They don't like competition, man. You know that! Hype. Hype, listen. You're not listening, are you?"

Hype ignored the Dude to reassure Rooster. "She's fine, just a little low-rez. She just needs to crash."

"Thank you, Miss Hype." He could not determine how she had diagnosed a state of low-rez. Then she aimed the glowing palm of her hand at him. She flipped it over and studied it, her high cheekbones accented by its bright pink light. "You could stand some rest yourself."

"Oh," Rooster said stupidly, watching the palm light fade. This was indeed a day of wonders.

"Can you and Bear handle things for a while?" The Dude seemed to have given up on their old argument. Miss Hype smiled at him lovingly. "Yes, Dude. It's quiet for now."

"I'm taking you two upstairs. You can crash there."

"Be sure to give them energy, Dude."

"I'm on it." The Dude and Miss Hype kissed briefly but with great fondness. "Follow me,"

And follow him Rooster did, half-carrying Mattie. It became total carrying after she stumbled, despite her murmured protest. Then she fell silent, which alarmed Rooster more than he cared to think on. Sweet burden in his arms, Rooster followed their host up a prodigious number of narrow glowing steps. Rooster was no architect, but he figured that these winding stairs added up to twice, hell, thrice the height of the building. Indeed, they had entered the looking-glass territory detailed in one of Mattie's favorite books.

After ascending more than thrice the height of the building, they entered a small, windowless room. The only furnishings were a spindly chair and a narrow bed that swallowed up half the floor space. The room was lit in the same fashion as the dining area, which did prevent gloominess. However, the anti-claustrophia lighting did not conceal the fact that there wasn't room to swing a cat. Wasn't even room to put the rug on the floor. Instead, it hung on the wall. Well, it was a mighty pretty rug. It brightened up the spare, almost sterile space.

Far be it from Rooster to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was safe and warm, which was more than they had ten minutes ago. He lay Mattie on the bed and loosened her collar. She was dead to the world. "What did Miss Hype mean by low … low-whatever?"

"Low-rez. All she needs is rest. Don't you worry, man. Hype knows her stuff." The Dude extracted a flask from a previously invisible shelf on the wall and poured blue liquid into a vial. "Give her this when she wakes up."

"What is this concoction?"

"An energy tonic."

"Hmm. So. It is good for what ails you." Rooster stood from the bed and faced the Dude.

"You got it." The Dude held out the vial.

"You first."

"Uhhh, what?" Meeting Rooster's implacable gaze, the Dude noticed how much the guy looked like his crazy Uncle Karol. How straight and quiet he stood. Where his hand was placed. "Oh, yeah. Uh, I get it. Don't pull your piece, man. I'll drink it." And he upended the vial and gulped the tonic.

"Thank you, friend." Rooster kept his hand on the butt of his 'piece'. "I try not to draw twice in one day if I can avoid it."

The two men stood in a silent, uneasy face-off. Rooster decided that the Dude was not as young as he had thought. A city boy, used to soft living, but he was at least forty. The Dude decided that Rooster couldn't be much past fifty. He was weather-beaten and his hair had gone solid white, but he was not a man to be messed with. Made the Dude think of a security program. Fuck it.

After five minutes, Rooster was satisfied that the tonic had no ill effects. "Have a seat, Dude." Rooster was tired, but he would not show it. He carefully sat on the bed after the Dude had taken the chair. "You must be thinking what a gracious way I have of thanking you for your hospitality. I hope you do not take offense at my precautions."

"Hey, no problem, man. Happened to me once, some asshole fed me a roofie. Not fun."

Despite himself, Rooster was curious. "What happened after you imbibed the ... roofie?"

"I got lucky, just a mild beating. A poor man's massage therapy."

It was a weak joke, but they both chuckled. It eased the tension. The Dude uneasily glanced down at the older man's revolver. It was one big fucking revolver. Two of 'em, one on each side. The Dude didn't know much about firearms, but they looked in excellent condition. They also looked antique. "Uh …" He thought of the older man's somewhat archaic speech. The archaic clothing on their backs.

Fuck. They must be from the real world. Like me. Big Brother. Oh, fuck — "What year is it?"

The older man looked at him like he was crazy.

"No, man, I'm serious here."

"It is 1883," Rooster said in a patient voice reserved for children, idiots and madmen.

"Yeah." Just tell him. "When I got beamed up, it was 1992. Over a century later. Which makes no fucking sense, because I got here before you. Space-time continuum is fucked up, man."

The older man was still looking at him like he was crazy, only now with a tinge of anger.

"Awwww, damn it," the Dude sighed. "Look, I, uh. Oh, man. I don't know how to explain this to you. I'll just say it. Just say it, uh. We're stuck in a computer. Uh, well, strictly speaking, a computer server."

"That is a fine explanation. Now I comprehend our situation completely."

"Okay, I'm not getting through here. Where I come from. When I come from, there are machines called computers. Thinking machines. And we're trapped inside one."

Another look. Fuck. The guy didn't look like his crazy Uncle Karol. He looked like his even crazier Uncle Lech.

"O-kay. Just open your shirt and see what you see. Yeah, I'm serious," he added at yet another incredulous look.

Grumbling, Rooster loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the top few buttons. "What—" He yanked his shirt open. Buttons went flying. "What—" Then he shouted, a brief, wordless sound. He would have lept to his feet, but he felt frozen in place on the bed.

Blue-white light gleamed up at him. What looked like liquid silver swam on his chest, sketched in a complex scheme. Rooster anticipated the pain and stench of torture by fire at any instant.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"That's cool, man," said the Dude. "Better than I handled it. First time I saw 'em, I screamed like a little girl." He had also parted his shirt to show Rooster that they were brothers in torment. "Walter had to calm _me_ down." He gave a brief snort of laughter.

"Holy jumping Jesus," Rooster muttered. His flesh did not melt. The silver did not run; it stayed in its pattern.

"Bodies are different in here. No hair. Except you get to keep the hair on your head."

"I would not mind a bald pate, but the wife would surely miss her crowning glory ... what in God's name are these things — what is their purpose?" The Dude held a different pattern, in a pale blue. More turquoise than silver.

"Not really sure. They're called circuits. Fuck, there's so much to tell you ... Okay, blood. These bodies are a little ... uh, really, a lot different. At least we look the same. Except for circuits and bald bodies, whoo!" The Dude dug into a shirt pocket for an outdated laser knife, bartered from a bum for some ganja. He rolled up a sleeve, showing a few circuits not as dramatic as those on his chest. He gingerly drew a shallow shining line across his inner forearm.

Instead of a normal spill of blood, what looked like large grains of blue glowing sand emerged.

"I am beginning to feel astonished past any possibility of surprise."

"There are advantages. Just brush it away." The Dude demonstrated. "Poof, gone." He cleared his throat. "Another thing. When ... uh, yeah. When you're, uh, you know. With the wife. Uh, and you ... uh, you know, uh ..." The Dude could not believe he was stammering and blushing. He still felt somewhat overawed by this formidable security-program type.

Rooster took pity on him. "This is not my first marriage, son."

The Dude laughed weakly. "Okay. Uh." He took a deep breath and steadied himself. "Stuff comes out of you ... your rod, looks a lot like this." He shook his head. "Another thing to be grateful for, you still got Mr. Johnson and his two close friends."

"We must be grateful for the little things."

"The big things, man. So. Uh. When you … Uh. Are with her. You won't need a towel. Just like the blood, it just, uh, disintegrates. See, there's no such thing as peeing here. And I've only heard one case of anybody ever taking a dump. And that was a rumor. Story goes, he was getting de-rezzed in a —"

"Back up and use short words. In this fair land, nobody ever —" Rooster glanced at Mattie. She remained unaware. "Nobody ever pisses or shits. However, they still —" The way the Dude abused the word, perhaps 'fuck' had taken on a different meaning over time. "They still enjoy God's blessing of the marital relation."

"Yeah. That's right. I gotta tell ya. The whole arrangement makes personal hygiene a lot easier."

"This is not hell, then."

"No. No, but you can see it from here, man." The Dude visibly perked himself up. "Hey, I don't wanna bum you out totally. There's a lot of good on the Grid. You still got each other." The Dude had seen how the older man's face changed when he regarded his young wife. "Watch out for the bad shit, you'll do okay. Damn, there's about a million things different between our world and this one. No way I can download it all at once. And I gotta get back to work." The Dude smiled ruefully. Another sentence he'd never thought would pass his lips. "Three things you gotta know, to start with." He ticked them off on raised fingers. "Don't say the word 'user'. Don't say the name 'Kevin Flynn' or just plain 'Flynn'. Main thing: don't piss off Clu."

"I believe we can accomplish the first two. Who or what is clue?"

"C-L-U. Initials mean something, I don't know what. They just call him Clu. Shouldn't say that name either, come to think of it. He runs this place. Not just Tron City, the whole fucking Grid, man. Don't piss him off, which is a whole lesson plan right there." He stood. "Lessons start tomorrow. You look after your fu— uh, special lady." The Dude had suffered a true beating on the Grid after applying his usual label 'fucking girlfriend'. "She wakes up, she'll think it was all a dream. Took, uh, I don't know how long till I got over that." A shrug. "Still happens sometimes. Damn, I almost forgot. I gotta get you ID discs. No disc, you can get in deep shit if you don't have a disc. So I guess you gotta introduce yourself. No last names, though. Not here."

"Our Christian names are Reuben and Martha. But she's always gone by Mattie."

"Reuben and Mattie. That's cool, I can get you IDs. R-U-E, M-A-T, three letters. That's easy. I can tell you're some sort of law—"

"No longer. I am well out of it."

"Yeah. Well. I hate to say this, but you're back in it now, man. What is Mattie's primary function?" Blank look. Oh man, culture clash. "I mean, if she had to make a living, make money, what would she do?"

"Well, now." Mattie could do anything she put her mind to. "She is a fine bookkeeper."

"Cool. Security program. Accounting program. Discs, no problem. I really gotta split. Crash as long as you want. I'm never here anyway." The Dude made what Rooster assumed was a gesture of departure, and hastily departed the bedroom.

Rooster stared at the bedroom door. He did not know what to think. He was too weary to think. Sighing, he got to his feet. If he stayed seated, he would surely fall asleep. He knew how to stay awake while keeping watch. He knew to do this much: he would watch over Mattie while she slept, then have her keep watch while he slept. How he would explain this to her, he didn't know. Everything the Dude (Jesus God, what a moniker!) had told him seemed to be flying out of his head.

He decided against disrobing her and simply loosened her clothing. He laughed softly to himself as he realized that he hadn't even thought on the wonder of their restored body parts. Instead, his mind lingered on the wonder of the Dude kissing a Negress in public. Perhaps the Temple of the Dude was one of those free-love communities. Rooster would not care, only those experimental utopias tended to end badly. The best case was recrimination and tears. The worst (and more common) case was shooting and stabbing. Rooster would not keep Mattie in such hazard. He laughed to himself again. As if Mattie would associate herself with free love in any fashion! In any way, shape or form!

First things first. Keep watch. Stay awake. Rooster began a slow pace to make sure he didn't go into a standing snooze. He had learned the hard way that it was quite possible to fall asleep while on your feet.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

After all that rushing around and craziness, the Dude ended up cooling his heels at the hole-in-the-wall formerly owned by Hype. Her sister Gaia was now proprietress of The Short Circuit. Out of love for Hype, and for useful data, Gaia provided him drinks at cost, but the Dude did not presume further than that. So when he got another text message on his armglove, he left the bar and paid for a crypto booth. He hoped nobody had seen how he'd jumped at the incoming message. Clu did not like jumpiness. The Dude hoped to hell that the message had something to do with bacon flavor.

Ed the MP3 arrived for his, her or its gig. Five cycles on the Grid, and the Dude had yet to get used to MP3s. They seemed to be small men, but he wasn't sure what they were exactly under the full-body adornment. At least they were humanoid. The Dude had heard rumors about the creatures in the Sea of Simulation. He'd heard that some were overtly hostile. Some were friendly. Very friendly. They would love you to death. As in, fuck you to death. According to some of the stories, at least you'd die smiling!

Was there anything to the wild tales of the Sea? The Dude had yet to find out. This irked him. He had been forced into the study of urban legends. It had become part of his job, when he most unexpectedly found himself the Duke of the Drunks. When rumors ran amok, he needed to know what they were about, in case the actual facts posed a threat to his people. What did these stories mean? What fears and desires did they represent?

The Dude thought it was all bullshit. The Sea was as dead as a door-nail, as Dickens would say. But people told and re-told those crazy stories for some reason. Some crazy reason … awww, fuck it. He was putting off more pressing work. Remiss in his royal duties, man.

He read his armglove and was surprised by his own relief. Fuckin' A! Not another cryptic message. It was just enthusiastic: I LOVE YOUR WORK! PLEASE WRITE MORE! SO NEW AND REFRESHING!

The Dude thought this over. I mean, exclamation marks? It sounded more like a fan letter than a flavor feedback. Maybe someone had got a really big kick out of the chocolate-chip milkshake. He wrote back: THANKS PROGRAM SEND CODE FOR MINT AND I WILL BE HAPPY TO COMPLY

CERTAINLY! WILL ALSO SEND APPLE!

What I need is Steve Jobs, man. I need security, decryption … don't need any apple flavor. ALREADY IN STOCK

I HAVE GRANNY SMITH! BETTER FOR BAKED GOODS

Okay. Like the Dude was gonna do any baking. HAVE GREATER NEED FOR HERBS AND SPICES I.E. DILL CUMIN OREGANO

The Dude almost felt her deflated eagerness in her reply: WILL DO RESEARCH

Somehow the Dude was convinced that his fan was a female. A cute one. YOU HAVE A NAME?

CALL ME Q

OK Q CALL ME DUDE

OK DUDE I MUST GO

The Dude studied his non-glowing sleeve with distinct disappointment. Cutie-Q had got in a hurry to end the conversation. The armglove lit up again, and he grinned widely. Yeah, talk to me, Cutie-Q! We'll discuss herbs, spices, Colonel Sanders …

His grin froze into a sickly grimace. He could feel the blood drain from his face. Shit. Oh shit. It was from Castor. Who allegedly was tight with Clu these days.

DARLING BOY IT'S BEEN FAR TOO LONG

Not long enough, man. Not _nearly_ _fucking_ long enough. As if the Dude could reply with anything close to that sentiment! Shit. He had never censored his speech before coming to the Grid. Never. He'd always said what he thought, and the devil take the hindermost. Well, he sure as shit censored his speech now. The consequences of the least defiance were too terrible to risk free speech. The Dude even found himself censoring his thoughts so that no doubleplusungood words ever escaped his lips unwitting.

I'm turning into a slave. I'm turning _myself_ into a slave. I don't dare be free, even in my own head. Thanks a lot, Mister Kevin fucking Flynn. The fucking _User_.

Many rumors of The User swirled about Tron City. Many were improbable or contradictory. Flynn had returned to the User world and was alive and well there. No, he had died there. No, he had died _here_. Death by murder, suicide, accident. _Convenient_ accident. He had been repurposed. He was hiding out somewhere on the fringes of the paradise he had created.

The Dude hoped that The User was alive and well and hiding out. He really did. It was his fondest, most secret hope. The Dude had never in his life deliberately hurt anybody. But if he ever ran across Kevin fucking Flynn, he was going to beat the absolute living hell out of the shit-for-brains. Even if that action did please Clu … He fought back a shudder. God. Jesus. Whoever … What am I becoming?

The Dude self-diagnosed that he was on the verge of a fear jag. It felt like the crying jags he'd suffered after Walter was … after Walter. Only fear felt even worse than grief, which was saying something. It was like his bones were crumbling. Gotta get a grip, man. Can't fall apart. People are fucking _counting_ on me. On _me_, of all people.

Ironically, Walter had taught the Dude a fear-handling technique. Thanks, my friend. The Dude turned off his armglove and cranked up the crypto booth to eleven. Ed the MP3 looked over with what was probably curiosity. The Dude told himself not to worry about it. He sat at still as possible and looked at his gloved hands resting on the table before him. He thought of all the hate and fear and anger as a sickly green-yellow virus. The virus bounced around inside him and scrubbed everything clean. Like a fucking laxative or something. Let go of the bad shit, man.

The Dude visualized the sickly green-yellow inside him slowly turning blue-white. Palest turquoise. The color of his circuits. Don't push it. No hurry. Breathe slow and deep. No hurry.

Time stood still. After however long it took for the conversion to complete itself, the Dude touched his fingertips together and watched them glow. Good. He spread his hands and smiled gently at the arcing light between them. The same blue-white as his circuits. Yeah, it was good now.

It wasn't mastery of the bad stuff inside him. It was acceptance. Since coming to the Grid, the Dude had got better acquainted than he ever cared to with the Dark Side. His Dark Side. I mean, we all have bad painful shit deep down inside, I always knew that, but knowing it and feeling it are two different things. Facing it …

We all have to face it, man. Especially on the fucking Grid. "Forget it, Jake," he murmured to himself. "It's Chinatown."

Ed the MP3 was still looking at him. The Dude wondered if he, she or it was an informant, and if so, for whom. Getting paranoid, man. The Dude chuckled to himself. In Tron City, a little paranoia was a healthy adjustment. He checked his internal chronometer and decided to exit the crypto booth. It was about ready to kick in another charge for the extra decryption. Time for a drink. He was done pulling himself together.

He went to the bar and got his usual at-cost faux-Caucasian. Gaia eyed him. "You okay, Dude?" Her lovely face was identical to Hype's, but she wasn't Hype. The Dude didn't trust her, not totally. Not like he did Hype. "Work's getting to me, man. Nothing a little energy won't cure."

He savored his beverage in slow sips. Savoring was a form of meditation, in the Dude's considered opinion. He felt good. He felt fresh and sharp. Light, almost weightless. Maybe it was just euphoria. Maybe it wasn't. The laws of physics still applied on the Grid, but as a User … well, a digitized User … he could bend those laws to the breaking point. He just had to be careful about it. Be discreet. Because his people needed him.

He raised his glass in a mocking toast to himself. All hail the Dude, the Duke of the Drunks! Long live me, man!

The Dude felt almost giddy. His people. The poor slobs needed him. That's cool. Nothing he could do about it anyway. It was what it was. And it was good. It gave his life meaning. There was good on the Grid. There was bad, but there was also good.

He thought of his fan Cutie-Q. No drunk she! The Dude now was certain that she was a she, and that she was sweet and smart. And cute. Don't forget cute.

Cutie-Q was good. She had her head together. He would continue their correspondence. He'd probably never lay eyes on her, but being pan-pals was good.

Speaking of correspondence … He began to mentally compose a reply to Castor. A carefully casual reply. He wondered if he should request two ID discs. Sure, Castor could supply them, but would he keep his mouth shut about it? The Dude no longer trusted Castor's discretion. Never had, really, but now it was worse. Tight with Clu, man.


End file.
